


i get by (with a little help)

by samalane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Post Season 7, Pre-Slash, Recreational Drug Use, mentions of underage drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 20:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15826446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalane/pseuds/samalane
Summary: Keith's old dealer is still alive.It's almost laughable, except that he's still selling - and Keith's still buying.Or: Keith really, really needs a break.





	i get by (with a little help)

Keith’s old dealer is still alive.

He learns about it completely by accident, while walking through one of the various refugee camps that had sprung up around the Garrison, handing out supplies. It had been shocking to see someone once so well dressed and clean-shaven reduced to a hollow-eyed man in threadbare clothes, but he’d recognised Keith, and when he’d smiled, he looked more like the boy Keith had once known.

Rob had never seemed particularly streetwise — selling underage kids pot while driving a limited-edition cherry-red sports car wasn’t exactly the best way of staying under the radar — but Keith had never known him to cause trouble. More importantly, he’d had decent stuff and charged fair prices, which was particularly important for a kid like Keith, who made his money flipping burgers.

The fact that Rob still has weed to sell is so laughably surreal — and yet such an unexpected but welcome relief — that Keith buys several grams more than he needs to. Rob hands it over with a knowing look, and Keith can maybe understand how a dealer stays in business despite that essential apocalypse coming down on them. It’s something to take the edge off, a temporary respite, and Keith gets that that. He needs a break, and the promise of that sticky-sweet haze is just too good to pass up on.

He pays Rob more than the weed is worth with credits returned by the Garrison — more than he’ll ever need, probably. He thanks him sincerely, gratefully, and tells him to drop Keith’s name if he’s in trouble. Keith doesn’t exactly know what being the leader of Voltron means on Earth, but so far he’s being treated like an officer, and even a commander in his own right.

He hides his stash in a particularly well-hidden compartment in the Black Lion, where he hopes neither Kosmo or Krolia will find it. Kosmo for obvious reasons, Krolia because he isn’t sure what her stance on drugs are, and whether she’d even care about what mind-altering substances he imbibed in his own time. He apologises to Black, but she only sends faint amusement back to him, so he thinks she understands.

Unfortunately, it’s several days before Keith is officially off-duty enough that he feels comfortable essentially incapacitating himself. If there’s an emergency he’s more or less screwed, but he need to get away and forget about everything is deep — it wells up in him like water from a spring. He hadn’t even particularly missed drinking or drugs, but now that he’s got a few baggies stashed away, the desire to smoke a joint is overwhelming— he can almost taste it. 

It’s a coping mechanism. He knows this — he has PTSD, they all do. He’s not ashamed of the trauma, but there isn’t really the time or resources to properly deal with it. They’ve been offered medication, and he doesn’t know about the others, but he hasn’t touched it yet. He should, maybe, because every time he closes his eyes he remembers the certainty of his impending death — of his team. He can’t stand knowing he’d brought them all to the brink of destruction.

There have been numerous near-death experiences over the years. He’s honestly lost track of them, pushed them back into the dark recesses of his mind because there is always, _always_ something else coming for them. But there was something about their last battle, too close to death, maybe, and he’d barely just managed to shake off the lingering horror of his fight with Shiro/not-Shiro. It still haunts him, and they haven’t spoken about it. He doesn’t know how to.

So he needs it — deserves it, even, he thinks to himself, as he heads out to the shack on his hoverbike (lovingly fixed up by Hunk while they were still stuck under light duties). He deserves the chance to disappear and relax and just get out of his own head for even just a few hours, before they head back into space and continue the fight. There’s so much left to do, and the yawning chasm left by the death of both Zarkon and Lotor scares the shit out of him — how do you even begin to turn what was once an empire into a democracy?

When he pulls up to the shack, the yard is blissfully empty. He’d told Krolia he was spending the night at home — and she’d picked up on the implication that he wanted to spend it alone. She’d helped him clean it up, after he’d been released from the hospital but deemed unfit for pretty much everything. It’s clean now, in a way he’d never managed before. They’d replaced the shingles on the roof, patched up any cracks or holes, swept and mopped until the floor was shining. Even though he isn’t living here full-time, the house no longer smells musty, and despite the grief permanently etched into the walls, Keith finds himself relaxing as he steps over the threshold and lets the screen door close behind him.

It’s quiet. Peaceful, almost, if it weren’t for the memories creeping out from the walls.

He drops heavily onto the couch and pulls a baggie and some paper from his pocket. It’s been a few years, but the necessary actions are as familiar as the lumpy futon beneath him, and all said and done, it doesn’t take a genius to roll a joint.

The click of the lighter, the hiss of burning paper and herb, and then Keith brings it to his lips, takes a long, satisfying drag.

It’s _so_ good.

He leans back against the futon, watching the smoke curl in the air above him. The tension bleeds from his body, just from the sense-memory alone, and he brings the joint back up for another hit.

There’s nothing but the sound of his breathing and the faint hiss of the burning paper each time he takes a hit. A few birds outside. There’s no wind today, no whistling through the cracks in the walls. But it’s okay, because for the first time in weeks, the cacophony in Keith’s head is finally fading to a dull roar, and then silence.

He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He needed this, he thinks again. He really, _really_ needed this.

And then he hears it.

The faint whine of a motor in the distance.

He blinks his eyes open, stares at the smoke above him. He’s almost certain he knows who it is, but isn’t sure whether he wants him here right now. Not when things have just gotten quiet.

But he knows Shiro, and if he hasn’t seen Keith’s bike out front yet, he will soon. And if he knows Keith is out here, he won’t go back without checking in on him. It’d been like this before Kerberos.

With a groan he rises, ambling over to the front door and stopping just before it, watching the faint figure of Shiro grow larger with every mile crossed. He’s driving fast, like he used to.

Keith takes another hit, blows it against the screen, watches the smoke dissipate. Then pushes the door open, moving to settle down in the old rocking chair his dad had left behind. He laughs a little, nursing a joint instead of a baby, wondering what his dad would think of him now. He’s still laughing when Shiro pulls up beside Keith’s bike and pushes the goggles up on his forehead.

“What’s up?” he asks, swinging a powerful leg over the seat. Keith hasn’t seen him ride in a long time, and the way Shiro looks in his leather jacket hits him like a ton of bricks. He’d forgotten how good Shiro looked in leather and on a bike.

“Nothing,” he says, the laughter fading as his interest sparks. The small, sober corner of his mind reminds himself that he probably shouldn’t be ogling Shiro so openly. “Just a thought.”

“Share with the class?” Shiro asks, pulling the goggles off entirely and approaching the veranda. “You were laughing pretty…” He stops, sniffs. “Is that marijuana?”

“Oh my god, _Shiro_ ,” Keith says. He might be laughing again. “Just call it weed.”

“Where did you find that?” Shiro asks, raising an eyebrow. His voice is curious, and he isn’t frowning, so Keith thinks he’s in the clear.

“My old dealer. He’s still at it,” Keith says, fondly. He’s impressed, to be honest. Shiro looks like he is too.

“I …guess there would be a market for it,” he says. “Something to take the edge off.”

“Exactly,” Keith says, taking another hit. “Do you want some?”

He has never once seen Shiro do any sort of drug. He knows he has, back in his wild days, because Adam had enjoyed embarrassing Shiro and telling Keith stories about his somewhat rebellious youth, but he’d never partaken when Keith offered.

Now, though, he looks at what’s left with keen interest.

“Do you have any more?” He asks, leaning against the railing. Keith laughs again.

“I have so much!” he says. It’s the funniest fucking thing. It’s way too much weed. “I stashed in in Black. I don’t think she minds. 

“Probably not,” Shiro agrees. He eyes the glowing remains between Keith’s fingers.

“I can roll us another one,” Keith offers. He’s looking closely at Shiro, and he can tell he wants it. He hasn’t looked away from the joint. “You definitely want some.”

“I do,” Shiro admits. The smile on his face is almost bashful. “But I probably shouldn’t.”

“Are you on duty?” Keith asks. Shiro makes a face, and Keith takes that as a no. “Look, the whole point of being off duty is to relax. We’ve been going nonstop for literal years, Shiro. You need to take a break or you’ll go crazy.”

“Were you going crazy?” Shiro asks, pinning Keith with that dark gaze. His throat goes dry.

“If I say yes, will you have some?” he manages. Shiro says nothing, so Keith sighs and flicks the butt out onto the dirt. “Yes, I was going crazy. Everything was too much, I need a break. I don’t want to think.”

“What were you thinking about?” The look Shiro pins him with is serious, and it makes Keith’s flesh itch. He feels naked when Shiro looks at him like that, like he can see everything that Keith is made of, right down to his bones.

“Everything. The battle, death, you.” _Your clone_ goes unsaid. He focuses his own gaze back on Shiro, tries to be stern. “Listen, I don’t wanna talk about it right now. I just wanna chill. Do you want a joint or no?”

Shiro stares at him a moment longer, then glances back at the bikes. “How are we gonna get back, if we’re both stoned?”

“We’re staying here,” Keith replies. “I am, anyway. Make up your mind, I’m rolling another.” He pushes himself to his feet, wobbles a little, and then heads to the door. A warm wraps around his wrist.

“I’ll have some,” Shiro says softly. The grin on his face is wide and boyish, the way it used to be back before everything went to shit. “Fuck it, I’m off duty!”

It’s impossible not to smile back, and Keith’s lips curl into a matching grin.

“That’s the spirit.”


End file.
